Confessions of a Single Mom On Tinder

This mom of two is seeking... a guy who doesn't think her small children are in the way (even if their talking trains sometimes kill the mood).

By
Holly Thatcher

Jan 10, 2017

"Mommy," pipes up my youngest. "Are you putting out tonight?" I think — at least I hope — he means going out.

My sons, ages six and four, are too young to understand what dating is, but they always watch with curiosity when I'm getting ready. Applying my eyeliner while they demand more Peppa Pig is just one of the many challenges I'm juggling while dating as a single mom. Others include finding last-minute babysitters and men who might like my kids as much as I do.

My marriage ended two years ago, and it took me awhile to get my head around dating again — but now that I have, I see that I'm doing life in reverse. As I'm dipping a toe in the dating pool, friends are becoming parents. Their lives revolve around strollers and breastfeeding, not meeting men in bars or swapping dating horror stories over a glass of wine.

But being single and a mother is a funny mix. At times it's liberating to be me again, to have drinks with virtual strangers and get excited about where the night might lead.

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And then I remember exactly where it leads: home. Because even when you've booked a babysitter for the evening, you're the one who has to get up for the 6 a.m. wake-up call, switch on Toy Story for the 813th time, make snacks, and break up squabbles, whether you have a postdate hangover or not.

Nevertheless, I now find myself carefully navigating the emotionally and logistically tricky world that is dating on Tinder. I know it's generally considered a hook-up app, but it's perfect for time-strapped moms who can't waste hours setting up a Match or eHarmony profile. There's no need to describe yourself in 10 adjectives or complete a personality test; all you need is a first name, a few pictures, and a couple of lines about yourself. Plus, it's easy to use on my phone, which is key because the parental-control settings on my computer won't let me access dating sites before 9 p.m.

I don't see any point in not being up front on Tinder about my children: They're part of the life I am proud of, not something to conceal. So I type Journalist and mom to two little boys into my profile. Even so, to my surprise, nearly every right swipe I make, signaling my interest in a guy, seems to result in a match. But conversations that start with promise trail off when I bring up the subject of my children. "What are you up to this weekend?" asks one potential date. "I'm taking my children swimming," I reply boldly. I keep looking at my phone, but get no response from him. Later, when I check back again, I see that I've been unmatched. Don't men on Tinder even read profiles?

Can I really invite him over with my kids in the house?

Luckily, not everyone I meet is so fickle. I start messaging Rob (not his real name, but a guy I have mutual friends with and have fancied for years), and after taking my youngest for his like-clockwork 1 a.m. trip to the potty, I can't get back to sleep. So I check Tinder — and there he is.

"What are you doing up?" he asks. I could just be honest, but I can't quite do it. "Still awake. Late night..." I text back, trying to sound flirtatious. "Want some company? I'm nearby." Do I say yes? I want to. Even though it's a blatant booty call. I've never had a one-night stand, and the thought that he wants me right now is a complete turn-on. Can I really invite him over with my kids in the house?

And then, as I'm drafting a subtly suggestive reply, my son waddles back in and climbs into bed beside me. And I realize, for tonight at least, he'll be the only guy between my sheets.

My son's impeccable timing does sometimes come in handy, though. A week later, I go on a date with a man who presents me with a Forrest Gump mug as a gift because I'd mentioned I love the movie. It's a sweet thought, but a wee bit excessive for a first date. Then another casually drops into conversation that he enjoys writing erotic short stories. On both occasions, I dart to the bathroom and frantically whisper-call my brilliantly ruthless babysitter, Laura, so that when I get back to the table, I just happen to get a text from her about an "emergency" requiring my immediate departure. I make a mental note to exercise more quality control before agreeing to meet — at $12 an hour for a babysitter, these failed dates are proving to be expensive.

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Then I meet Jack (also not his real name). He's confident and attractive and an entrepreneur. As usual, I start the date by telling him I have two sons, even throwing in some funny anecdotes. He laughs. We click. Later, after a passionate kiss to cap off the night, we make plans to see each other again.

And we do. But when he arrives at my house for date two, he seems uncomfortable. The boys are at their dad's, but evidence of them is everywhere: pictures on walls, toys scattered on the floor. As we sit down and lean into a kiss, the disembodied voice of Thomas the Tank Engine informs us from behind a cushion that he is a really useful engine. We both try to ignore it, but I'm not sure Jack can.

The following weeks are a dance of babysitters and schedule changes so I can visit Jack at his apartment instead and our evenings can be plastic toy-free. For a little while, I tell myself it can work. Escaping my real life and responsibilities, even just for a few hours, is blissful.

Yet I slowly realize that while Jack accepts that I'm a mom, he rarely asks about my children, changing the subject whenever I mention them. We only ever meet at his bachelor pad, never at my house. I start to wonder if he's trying to pretend the other side of my life doesn't exist.

Ultimately, I don't feel that pressure to settle or compromise.

Before our dates, I find myself frantically running around trying to get the kids into bed, rushing through their bedtime story so I can mentally switch into "sexy date" mode. Then I stop myself, the guilt rising: I'm not giving my children the time and attention they deserve.

The final straw comes one morning. "Mommy," pipes up the four-year- old. "Who is watching us tonight?"

Reality dawns. "I am," I reply.

And I always will be. No matter how much I try to pretend there's a whole other me — the carefree, "I'll come to your place tonight" me — I am also, and always will be, a mother. Those boys will always come first. So Jack, a man who freaks out at the sight of Pampers wet wipes, is never going to last. I end things the following week. Some people might assume that dating online as a single mother is depressing. In fact, one positive of being a mom already is that I'm not looking for a husband, or the father of my children, or The One. Ultimately, I don't feel that pressure to settle or compromise, especially not with a man who views my children as an inconvenience. Instead, I'm discovering the joys of my imperfect but liberating situation.

Yes, my life looks very different than the one I had planned — mainly because now it's not planned at all. When I was married, my future was mapped out for me. I could picture what it would look like in 10, 20, even 30 years' time. But since I've started dating online, I've embraced my new dual lifestyle: My responsibilities as a mom ground me, but the feeling of getting dressed up for a night out and not knowing what's around the corner? It's thrilling. In place of certainty, I have freedom. And with my sons, I also feel safe in the knowledge that I'll always have two wonderful men by my side.

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